


Blastoff

by lastSaskatchewanPirate



Series: Incendiary [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, M/M, Mechpreg, Pregnancy Kink, Sparklings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-04 13:55:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12772479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastSaskatchewanPirate/pseuds/lastSaskatchewanPirate
Summary: Helping Optimus with his 'problem' led to certain complications.  Megatron isn't entirely sure he's up for dealing with all of them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [TeapotTempest's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TeapotTempest/pseuds/TeapotTempest) New Paradigm series, which is THE ABSOLUTE BEST and also has left me unable to imagine newly-emerged sparklings as anything other than shiny volleyballs.

Megatron had not minded the conception phase of this latest weird turn his life had taken; if pressed, he might even have admitted to enjoying it thoroughly.

Carrying was something else entirely.

He ached. He ached in ways he hadn’t believed a cybernetic organism _could_ ache. He ached down to his struts, in every joint and linkage and circuit of his frame, a constantly shifting, transient discomfort that never progressed so far as to earn the moniker of “pain” … but it wore on him, day after day, week after week; a fretful, low-grade, constant misery.

He bore up and endured. It did not occur to him to do otherwise. Doing otherwise had never, in all his long life, been an option.

The sparkling grew, and drained his energy; and grew, and compressed his internals until finally there was no more room even in his broad, blocky chassis, and his plating began to curve out. Just a little – there was only one sparkling in there, after all, and Megatron was far from delicate.

He was far from delicate, but toward the end of the process he had certainly started to feel just a bit … well. Not _delicate_ , of course, but perhaps a little less _robust_. He was tired, _Primus_ he was tired. All the supplements and extra fuel and prenatal care in the universe couldn’t fix that; his entire frame was dedicated to creating a tiny new mech from scratch, to the exclusion and detriment of all else.

He was tired, and he bore up and endured that as well.

Most of the people with whom he interacted wouldn’t even have known Megatron was carrying until the very end, when that little curve – not so very big, really; it was just one little sparkling, after all – appeared in his plating; and aside from that and a nigh-immeasurable increase in general grumpiness (and who could notice that over the constant background radiation of Grump that Megatron emitted as a matter of course?) his carriage seemed to have very little effect on Megatron’s day-to-day interactions with anyone.

Optimus Prime, on the other hand, was having a marvelous time.

True, he was so narrow-hipped that he had almost no internal space at all in which to develop a single sparkling, to say nothing of three, so he was almost comically gravid very quickly. Optimus being Optimus, of course, he managed to carry this off with the same regal serenity that he exuded under any circumstances, sweeping through the corridors like an icebreaker, curved prow preceding him by an ever-increasing margin.

He was infinitely patient with the constant barrage of requests to touch the round swell of his abdominal plating, with the petting and the questions and the delighted cooing.

He was constantly hungry, and – as time passed and his girth increased – frequently a little unstable on his feet as his center of gravity seemed to shift on an almost daily basis, but in general he swanned through the process like a shiny chrome fertility deity brought to enormous cybernetic life, gracious and genial and glowing.

Megatron, miserably achy as he was, sort of wanted to hate Optimus and was understandably dismayed to discover that he really couldn’t. In part, Optimus was just so genuinely _happy_ that even Megatron couldn’t begrudge him that (too much); and in part, Optimus was so attentive and sympathetic – and gave such fantastic massages – that Megatron just couldn’t hold onto anything more aggressive than a sort of mild disgruntlement.

After all, who else was going to rub his ankle joints like that?

*

In public, Megatron was every inch the guarded, unapproachable ex-warlord that everyone expected.

In the privacy of their shared habsuite, Megatron allowed himself the touches that he craved, the intimacy for which he hungered desperately in the deepest, most secret reaches of his spark.

In the privacy of their shared habsuite, Megatron pressed fever-hot kisses to Optimus’s neck and shoulders, hands restless across the span of Optimus’s back. He pressed soft, careful kisses to the burgeoning dome of plating that protected three little sparks; and he allowed Optimus to kiss and caress and love him in turn. When they lay together on the oversized berth, they curled their frames close together to feel the delighted thrum of tiny sparks dancing in the mingled EM fields of their parents.

This was a dream far more elusive to that long-ago miner, to that not-so-long-ago warlord, than freedom or peace. This was his partner. These were his children.

This was his _family_.

Megatron curled a little closer to those four bright, welcoming sparks, and found himself for once not dreading the future.

*

After Megatron had caught and returned with interest the third wrench that Ratchet threw at him in one visit, everyone involved agreed that transferring the rest of his pre-emergence care to Velocity seemed to be the most prudent course of action. Velocity did not throw around wrenches. Velocity did throw around almost as much snark as Ratchet, but it was more bantering and less antagonistic thanks to the lack of interpersonal history confounding things. Given the frequency of required visits to medbay involved in carrying and the corresponding potential for collateral ballistic wrench-inflicted damage, this was generally hailed as an overwhelming improvement.

*

Emergence, when it came – right on time, almost hilariously punctual in fact – was not much different than the rest of the post-conception experience had been. To wit, it was grindingly uncomfortable, and sapped every remaining iota of strength and resilience he had possessed, and Megatron bore it as stoically and uncomplainingly as he had borne all the rest.

He was shaking with fatigue when Velocity finally handed him a tiny silver sphere, so small it could be fully cradled in the cup of both hands, seamed almost invisibly with sleek curving lines demarcating its articulation points, and astonishingly heavy for its size; it took all his remaining strength not to drop it.

For a moment, nothing happened. And then there was a faint vibration, the tiniest clicking of brand-new cogs, and the curved plates shifted just enough for two bright blue eyes to peer at him.

For once in his life, Megatron found that words had failed him utterly.

*

The first hint that anyone had of Optimus’s impending emergence came on the heels of a long and restless recharge cycle several weeks after the projected due date. Optimus staggered into the medbay, one hand braced at the small of his back and the other alternating between supporting his abdomen and gripping desperately at the wall in an attempt to remain upright. Gravity had not yet won the day, but its victory appeared immanent.

“Primus, you look terrible,” said Ratchet, and started prepping a tray.

Optimus blinked at him slowly. “I feel terrible,” he confessed, managing to sound both perplexed and personally offended. “Everything _aches_.”

“Define ‘everything,’” said Ratchet, adding a selection of sensor blocks to the tray.

“ _Everything_ ,” Optimus snapped. “It’s a simple word. I used it for a reason. My struts ache, my joints ache, my _armor_ aches and it doesn’t even _have_ sensors.” He slumped forlornly onto a convenient berth and held out a hand in plain entreaty, medical ports already opened. “Make it stop.”

Ratchet managed to suppress a smirk, but it was a close thing. “Somehow I suspect it’s going to sort itself out in relatively short order.” He plugged into the offered port and hummed thoughtfully as the data began to scroll across his HUD. “Well, it’s about time; you’re in the early stages of emergence. Took you long enough.” He whacked Optimus gently on the knee and gestured him into a prone position on the berth. “Get comfortable, you’re going to be here a while.”

Optimus blinked at him again, thoughts clearly sluggish as he obeyed and lay down. “I’m … what? Is that what this is? Why does it feel so awful?”

“Your frame is getting ready to expel a handful of sparklings, Optimus. Surely you didn’t think it was going to feel _good_.”

“The rest of it has,” Optimus muttered sullenly, sounding not entirely dissimilar to a sparkling himself.

Ratchet paused and took stock. 'Sullen' and 'grouchy' were not words that anyone normally associated with Optimus Prime, and while these were certainly unusual circumstances, things like ‘significant change in patient’s demeanor’ tended to send up a whole host of warning flags in a medic’s programming.

“What do you mean, ‘the rest of it has?’”

Optimus huffed angrily and struggled to find a comfortable position on his berth, efforts seriously hampered by the mass of three large-frame sparklings and their attendant support structures. “I mean the rest of it has been _nice_! The rest of it has felt _good_! Nothing hurt, I wasn’t too tired, I slept well, it was _very pleasant_ and I would like to get back to that somehow!”

Ratchet, torn between worry and amusement, took a deeper look at Optimus’s code, and then began to laugh.

Optimus glared at him over the ample curve of his gravidity. It made him look uncannily like a perturbed snapping turtle, which just made Ratchet laugh harder.

“I’m sorry, Optimus,” he managed eventually. “I’m not laughing at you, I – well, no, I am laughing at you, but just a little. Lucky you,” Ratchet directed the data feed to a monitor so he could show Optimus what was going on, “through some quirk in your physiology, you’ve basically spent your entire carrying period drunk.” He paused for a moment. “Or high, actually; ‘high’ would be more accurate. The reason you feel so spectacularly awful just now is because, well, emergence isn’t exactly pleasant; but also you’re crashing.”

Optimus stared at him in woozy horror. “The sparklings …?”

“Totally fine,” Ratchet hastened to assure him. “You weren’t actually using – or even producing – any sort of mind-altering substances; it’s just that part of your processor was reacting as if you were.”

Optimus tried to process this through the growing haze of discomfort. Ratchet could see the moment he gave up the attempt and flopped, defeated, against the berth. “Fix it?” he implored pathetically.

Ratchet patted his shoulder sympathetically. “Like I said – it’s going to fix itself in short order.” He thought for a moment. "Well. For a given value of 'short order,' of course; sometime emergence can take a while, especially for first-time carriers. Especially with multiples. Oh, and particularly for your frametype. Like I said: you're going to be here a while."

Optimus groaned.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uncle Roddy makes a tactical error.

It had been a very long war.

Aside from MTO’s, newly-sparked mecha had become enough of a rarity that none of the _Lost Light_ crew could even remember the last time they’d seen anything other than an adult frame. As the hot spots had darkened, only cold construction had remained as an option for reproduction; after all, sparking and carrying during a war was a complete non-starter. Even Ratchet would have to work to retrieve from ancient archives his memories of the last gestated sparkling he’d seen.

Thanks to Optimus and Megatron, the entire crew had been delivered an abrupt reminder.

Sparklings, they were reminded, did not yet have fully developed vocalizers and consequently could not actually speak. This did not, by any stretch of the imagination, mean that they were silent.

Far, far from it.

The corridor outside Swerve’s bar was an auditory uproar of proportions generally only experienced on a battlefield in the midst of an airstrike. High-pitched strings of beeps, chirps, and binary giggles wound through the deeper shouts and laughter of adult mechs – most of them with battlefield-grade vocalizers, no less – and the thunder of running feet.

Megatron paused, frowning, at the corridor junction. A sparkling’s glass-shattering screech abruptly convinced him to investigate, mostly by dint of reaching straight past his frontal cortex, grabbing his progenitor coding in both clawed fists, and yanking him into action.

He came around the corner to be faced with a scrum of half a dozen crew members jostling rambunctiously for position at the head of the pack that had gathered at the doors to the bar, while Rodimus Prime – one balled-up sparkling tucked securely beneath his arm – raised his other hand and

threw

one of 

Megatron’s 

sparklings

_down the fragging corridor like a fragging lob ball, the sparkling shrieking the whole time, its piercing cry dopplering away as it arced toward the jostling crowd in a perfect ballistic trajectory_ –

Megatron did not know he was moving until Rodimus’s terrified face was so close that it was the only thing he could see, wide blue eyes filling his entire field of vision.

For his part, Rodimus had been having a fantastic time sparkling-sitting with Iaane and Tuanne – Tethre and Moethre were with Drift at the moment, since the four of them all together tended to be almost as much of a force of nature as their parents combined; and hadn’t Roddy just tried to give Optimus and Megatron a load of slag about the naming convention – an archaic counting system? _Really_? – until Ratchet had shut him up by pointing out that it was (a) actually very traditional, especially for multiples, and (b) wouldn’t need to be used for much longer anyway, since the sparklings would name themselves not too long after learning to talk –

And then suddenly footsteps were pounding toward him, as fast as a mech with long, long legs could run when fully motivated, and he turned to see Megatron advancing on him, face twisted in a snarl that Rodimus hadn’t seen in a long, long time, since a horrible, awful day that had involved a very large hole being blasted straight through him by a certain fusion cannon –

That luckily was not mounted on Megatron’s arm at the moment, but _holy slag_ did that not make the situation one iota better, because this wasn’t Megatron, co-captain of the _Lost Light_ ; this wasn’t Megatron, the slightly awkward Weird Dad figure that he’d become to much of the crew, who taught history lessons and wrote poetry and started book clubs; this wasn’t Megatron, who had become something of a joke, even, because who could reconcile who he had been with who he was among them?

… this was Megatron, the Slag Maker. The terror of Kaon, the revolutionary who’d burned down their world, the warlord who had torn through the galaxy and laid waste to entire planets and civilizations; Megatron, who went toe-to-toe with the heaviest hitters that the Autobots could muster and beat them, who had taken down a fragging Combiner single-handedly – 

And who was about to take apart Rodimus with those same hands, only it wasn’t going to take nearly as long, because Roddy wasn’t even half Megatron’s size and moreover was not about to flame-on inside his own ship and _holding a fragging sparkling in his hands_ –

Megatron was just within reach-out-and-crush distance, his enraged EM field crashing over them like a tsunami, when the sparkling apparently recognized something – the spark signature, the EM field, the rage? – and popped open with a delighted chirp, tiny soft hands reaching eagerly for its parent.

Megatron came to a halt as though he’d run face-first into a restraint field at max power – because Primus knows nothing less would have a chance in hell of stopping him – and stood there, fists clenching, chest heaving as his vents struggled to cool off systems superheated by fury. Then he punched the wall next to Rodimus’s head, denting it enough to curl the panel edges and popping loose most of the rivets holding the damn thing in place; and as the rivets rained down with merry little plinks, the Slag Maker reached out, plucked his cooing sparkling from Roddy’s paralyzed grip, and turned away.

Rodimus didn’t have much of a view of the other side of the corridor, given the span of Megatron’s shoulders, but he could catch a glimpse of the rest of the lob ball players quailing back until they could retreat no further, one of them – he couldn’t tell who, Megatron’s bulk blocked his view of pretty much everything but feet at this point – clearly offering up the other sparkling, which was likewise chirping and peeping merrily at its parent, blissfully unafraid of that seething EM field, the promise of wrath and destruction in every line of that broad back, the potential violence in those huge hands …

Megatron turned and stalked back the way he had come, sparklings perched happily on his shoulder guards and squeaking out what would probably have been an enthusiastic recounting of their afternoon’s adventures with Uncle Roddy had they actually been able to produce comprehensible speech.

There was a profound, echoing silence once those heavy footsteps had faded.

Rodimus let himself sink back against the wall and blow out a single sharp breath; and if it shook just a little on the way out, well … none of the other losers at the other end of the corridor had a fragging word to say about _that_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the sparklings' names are actually based on an archaic counting system: the Yan Tan Tethera used by UK shepherds for counting their flocks. Because if it was good enough for Terry Pratchett, it's good enough for Megs and OP, dammit.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Great Disappointment of Optimus Prime is even worse than the Wrath of Megatron. Uncle Roddy makes amends.

Optimus met them in the command center, Iaane and Tuanne still chirping merrily from Megatron’s pauldrons and Megatron still projecting an EM storm of rage so intense that it was actually causing low-level ionization of the ship’s atmosphere in his immediate vicinity.

“What _happened_?” Optimus demanded; their bond had given him an all-access, full-immersion experience of Megatron’s terror and fury, protective instincts galvanized into full roaring force with all the terrifying speed that a war-trained battlegrade processor could bring to bear; it had carried Optimus right along with it, but he hadn’t known why.

“Rodimus,” Megatron managed to grit out through teeth clenched hard enough to crack.

“Oh Primus,” said Optimus wearily. “What the frag did he do?”

Iaane beeped at Optimus and reached out for him. Optimus offered his open hands and Megatron passed the wriggling sparkling over to its other parent, where it patted tiny hands against Optimus’s battlemask – the mask had deployed automatically when Megatron’s fury had exploded across their bond – until the mask retracted with a _click_. Optimus pressed a fond kiss to the little hand patting his mouth, and waited for Megatron to unclench his jaw enough to reply.

Megtron shuddered, hard, his armor chiming faintly with the intensity of the motion, and then sighed out a harsh breath. “He was playing lob ball with the sparklings.”

Optimus frowned. “Why would he do that? They’re too small yet to catch a ball, to say nothing of throwing one.”

“No,” Megatron growled. “He was playing lob ball _with the sparklings as the ball_.”

Optimus was silent for a moment as that sank in.

“He _what_?!”

*

Rodimus had faced countless battles in his time; had faced his own death, had faced his own creator; had faced Megatron in full battle rage.

Facing the Crushing Disappointment of Optimus Prime was, he decided, the very worst thing ever.

“… and though the war is over,” Optimus was expounding gravely, in his best world-weary commander voice, “the principles for which we fought still do apply and must always apply, foremost among them _the protection of innocents_.”

Rodimus cringed. He really hadn’t meant any harm to Iaane and Tuanne; he’s just noticed that they loved being tossed gently into the air and then caught – especially Iaane, who was beginning to show signs of having a flight-capable alt at some point – and that had progressed naturally to tossing them back and forth with Trailbreaker, and then a bunch of other mechs had shown up, drawn by the shrieking giggles; and the sparklings obviously were having fun, so …

He made the tactical error of trying to point this out. Optimus promptly diverted into an extensive lecture on Informed Consent, the Importance Thereof, with particular attention paid to Capability of Giving or Withholding Said Informed Consent, and the specific ability or lack thereof of pre-verbal sparklings to do so.

All in all, Rodimus was feeling like the worst kind of scum, about three inches tall, and generally bruised in the emotions department by the time he found himself in the corridor on which the command staff had their quarters.

Very faintly, through the doors of their hab, Rodimus could hear happy little beeps from Megatron and Optimus’s sparklings; before the impulse could fade and self-preservation take over, he pinged the suite for entry and stood nervously before the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot in the vague hope that it might improve his chances of avoiding a fist – or a cannon blast – to the face.

The doors whooshed open. Rodimus summoned his courage (a very different object than his usual bluster) and stepped inside.

He’d never been in the shared hab suite that Megatron and Optimus had moved into after so spectacularly knocking each other up, but the opportunity to look around was completely superseded by the view before him.

Megatron was sprawled out in the middle of the floor on his belly, scowling at a datapad while Iaane and Tuanne snoozed beside him, little silver hemispheres smooshed against the floor. Tethre was lying atop Megatron’s back, beeping happily and gnawing on a polishing chamois, and Moethre was in ball mode rolling back and forth between Megatron’s feet, Megatron idly angling his legs as necessary to keep the little one safely contained.

“Uh,” said Rodimus, dumbfounded in the face of such cozy domesticity.

Megatron glanced up from his datapad. “Something you need, Rodimus?”

Rodimus gulped. He was going to be reliving the view of that face twisted in rage, bearing down on him like an advancing storm, EM field battering him with protective fury, for quite some time; and the fact that Megatron was currently lying on the floor covered in sparklings did not do a single thing to mitigate that gutting reminder of just who and what he was, had been, and always could be.

“I, uh. Wanted to apologize.”

Megatron stared at him some more; clearly he wasn’t in the mood to make this any easier for Rodimus.

Well, that was hardly new.

“I didn’t think about how scary it would be for you guys, us playing with the kids like that; and I could spend all day telling you about how careful we were really being and how much the little beepers seemed to like it, but that doesn’t change the fact that it was stupid and irresponsible of me … so. “ Rodimus swallowed hard against the rising despair, the sour taste of failure in the back of his mouth. “I’m sorry, Megatron. I didn’t mean to scare you, and I didn’t mean to possibly hurt your babies. I’m sorry.”

Megatron looked at him for a moment longer, and then set down the datapad. Moving carefully so as to avoid dislodging Tethre mid-battle with the chamois, he reached to the side and scooped up Iaane in one huge hand. The sparkling squeaked and stirred, flexing open from its half-open face-down position and rolling over in its progenitor’s had, and then twisting to look directly at Rodimus.

Iaane chirped, a bright string of incomprehensible binary babble, and wriggled with glee; and Megatron set the sparkling gently on the floor, tapped its little carapace to signal it to curl into a ball, and with a push sent it bowling across the floor to tap lightly against Rodimus’s toes.

Rodimus gaped at him. At his feet, Iaane popped back open with a delighted squeal and then raised tiny grabby hands to Rodimus in a clear demand to be picked up.

Rodimus gaped some more.

Megatron rolled his eyes, and smirked, and then indicated the loudly-cheeping sparkling with a jerk of his chin. “Well? Pick it up before it starts to fuss; if one goes off they all will.”

Slowly, carefully, never taking his eyes off Megatron in case this was some sort of really fragged-up trap, Rodimus bent down and scooped up a wriggling armful of Iaane, who immediately started cooing and trying to stick tiny stubby fingers into Rodimus’s mouth.

Megatron snorted. “Don’t put yourself in his mouth, Iaane; I know where he’s been.”

Rodimus huffed mock offense at his co-captain over the sparkling’s head. “Hey!”

“Hey yourself.” Megatron reached over to his other side and snagged a handful of datapads, which he scooted across the floor to Rodimus. “Make yourself useful while you’re here, why don’t you.”

“I’m not gonna do your work for you,” said Rodimus defiantly, even as he stepped closer to pick up the pads with one hand, cradling Iaane with the other while the sparkling tugged on Roddy’s finials and bounced happily in his grip.

“I’m not asking you to,” Megatron retorted. “That’s _your_ work and I was picking up the slack. As usual.”

Rodimus plunked himself down the floor cross-legged as Megatron returned the bulk of his attention to his own work. “I take exception to that!”

“Take the datapads instead, Rodimus.”

Tuanne tumbled over to crawl clumsily into Rodimus’s lap, and Iaane burbled happily from his shoulder, and Rodimus had to admit that there were certainly worse ways to strongarm him into doing his paperwork.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four is good. More -- as far as Optimus is concerned -- would be even better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty explicit and also a little kinky. Just sayin'.

“Megatron.”

Megatron grunted in absent response, still engrossed in the report he was reading. That border area was definitely going to require additional patrols.

“Megatron.”

Requisition requests – Primus, how tedious. Still, blindly signing off on requisition forms from Shockwave was expensive at best and catastrophically foolhardy at worst.

“ _Megatron_.”

“What?”

There was definite amusement lacing through Optimus’s deep voice, so clearly he wasn’t too terribly perturbed. “Did you not hear me?”

“I heard you,” said Megatron, and frowned at the datapad. That much coronid alloy was going to be hell to obtain, to say nothing of being extremely suspicious. He appended a note to the file and kept going.

“And yet you chose to ignore me?”

Still amused: good, he had some maneuvering room. “I wasn’t ignoring you.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“I grunted.”

Optimus laughed outright. “So you did. I suppose I should know better by now.”

Megatron permitted himself a brief smirk. “Indeed you should. Is there a reason you require my attention, Prime?”

“In point of fact, there is.”

Megatron could hear Optimus’s heavy footsteps approaching the berth on which he was currently lounging with a stack of datapads, but the pace was slow and leisurely and didn’t appear to require him to divert additional attention from this fragging requisition form. “Is it an emergency?”

“Only by a very liberal definition,” Optimus admitted, closing the distance to stand beside Megatron and stare down at him, hands on hips.

Megatron grunted again. “Then hopefully my lack of verbal response can be forgiven.”

Optimus hummed thoughtfully. “That may require some … effort on your part.”

Well, that sounded potentially ominous. Megatron saved his notes and set the datapad aside, looking up at Optimus warily. “What sort of effort?”

Optimus’s response was to shift himself gracefully onto the berth, straddling Megatron’s thighs. Given the sprawled position Megatron had adopted, straddling him in that manner required Optimus to demonstrate an intriguing degree of flexibility.

It also meant that, at that proximity, Megatron could feel the heat coming off Optimus’s panels; could feel the hot, staticky press of an aroused EM field; could smell the first faint, sweet traces of …

… oh.

_Oh_.

“Thought you said it wasn’t an emergency.”

Optimus laughed softly. “It isn’t … not yet, at least.”

“Well, that’s considerate of you.” Megatron let his hands drift up to rest lightly on Optimus’s thighs, not gripping – not yet – just stroking gently at warm smooth metal with his thumbs. Optimus had clearly waxed and polished recently, his armor sleek and irresistibly tempting to the touch, and Megatron couldn’t find it in himself to bother resisting that temptation. “Given how fragging pushy you get when you let it go too long.”

“I don’t remember hearing you complain last time,” said Optimus, and there was a wicked glint in his blue eyes as he settled himself more comfortably over Megatron’s thighs. He reached out in turn, tracing the looping arabesques engraved on Megatron’s chestplate with a single delicate fingertip.

Megatron shivered. “I may have to concede that point.”

Optimus smirked triumphantly and leaned in to press his mouth hungrily to Megatron’s, sucking on his lower lip before nipping just hard enough to sting; grinding his now-scorching panels against Megatron’s own.

Neither of their panels stayed closed much longer; neither of them felt particularly inclined to hold back, particularly not when they knew intimately well the other’s stamina and refractory period, and getting the first two or three overloads out of the way quickly just meant that they would be able to take their time with the next few.

It was, in fact, quite a long and stickily satisfying interval before they found themselves back in the same position, Optimus riding Megatron’s spike with slow, languid rolls of his hips, bottoming out every so often with a particularly deep grind to rub the external sensors of both their arrays together.

There was a frankly obscene squelching noise every time Optimus did that maneuver. Megatron found it hilarious and arousing in equal measure.

Above him, Optimus arched his back and overloaded again with a breathless moan, plasma arcing across his plating and trickling down to ground, tingling, through Megatron’s. He was pulled into another overload of his own, groaning as he felt the transfluid pulse from his spike and be drawn eagerly into Optimus’s already-full gestation tank. The tank was, in fact, so full at this point that it was making Optimus’s abdominal plating bow out.

Megatron placed one hand against the subtle curve, cupping it in his palm, and felt the shudder pass through Optimus as he did.

“You look like you’re carrying again.”

Optimus breathed out heavily, body still rolling against Megatron’s in a strong, sinuous wave. “That … would be … the goal,” he acknowledged, static fuzzing his articulation almost to a slur.

Megatron blinked up at him, dumbfounded. “You … what?” He scrabbled desperately for a fraction of his usual linguistic capacity, never an easy task immediately post-overload and one rendered even more challenging by Optimus writhing atop him, clearly chasing yet another overload already. Hedonist. “Isn’t … _aahhh_ … isn’t four enough?”

“They’re half grown already,” Optimus retorted, slamming himself down on Megatron’s spike like it was his only hope for salvation.

Megatron struggled for clarity, feeling rather as though his processor was being liquefied. “Isn’t that … the point?”

Optimus slowed his pace – but didn’t stop – and looked down at Megatron gravely. “Do you truly not wish for more?”

Megatron gaped at him, hands clamped rictus-tight around those strong silver thighs. “I … had genuinely not thought about it.” His gaze dropped to Optimus’s belly, already rounded by the sheer volume of transfluid in his gestational tank, and felt burning arousal scorch through his body. “… I cannot deny that you look magnificent when carrying, though.” Optimus huffed out a little laugh, and Megatron pried his hands free from Optimus’s legs to cup Optimus’s belly instead, imagining it hot from the internal forging process, full and round and ripe with another clutch of children … another clutch of little ones rolling about, chirping and peeping and _learning_ and _growing_ and …

“Yes,” Megatron whispered, looking up to meet the blue, blue eyes of his partner. “Yes, I do want more.”

Optimus smiled down at him, warm and loving and joyful, and opened his chest plates. Spark light spilled out between them, doubling as Megatron opened his own and drew Optimus down into their merge.

Just before the ecstatic joining overwhelmed them completely, he managed a single coherent question.

“How many do you think I can give you this time?”


End file.
